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Weekly Contest #39
April 14th, 1912, she began, her eyes brimming with fresh tears as they fell upon the luminous dots in the cloudless portion of the night sky. It is not the smell of roses, it is more than splashes of blue, orange and yellow of dusk, Mariah Raines wrote. She looked up, her green eyes glistened as she stared ahead, heavy gaze fixated on absolute nothingness. I do believe it is more than the watery scent of salty ocean breeze, she continued with trembling hands, or the petrichor on sandy shores instead? Words sprung out from hollow d...
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